“It’s my floor,” Lucas muttered.

I looked at him.

“Our floor.

Or it was, until you decided your mother’s dinner mattered more than my recovery.”

Dad didn’t take the bait when Agnes called him a bully.

He merely said, “My daughter invited me.

I’m here to take her where she wants to go.”

Lucas moved toward the hallway.

“Corinne, we need to talk privately.”

“No.

We needed to talk before your mother started shouting at me.

Right now I need my medications, my baby supplies, and a ride.”

Jesse pulled an upholstered dining chair into the living room and checked that I could sit without twisting.

He was careful not to offer medical advice beyond what I had already been told at discharge.